


Falling With Grace

by The_Bentley



Series: Transformations 'Verse [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Biblical References, Comfort/Angst, Developing Friendships, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Injury, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Some Humor, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 12:59:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18638605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Bentley/pseuds/The_Bentley
Summary: The ineffable Plan is using Crowley as much as it can to advance its agenda without interfering with free will.  The only problem is that he's unaware this is happening.  Meanwhile, Aziraphale is puzzled by this demon who seems to be more than he appears.





	1. After the Fall, Before Time Began

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not totally happy with this, but I'm going to go out on a limb and post it anyway. I hope you like it. There are probably some historical inaccuracies which is why I included that tag. I did a small bit of research but not much because the story is more about Aziraphale and Crowley's developing friendship than the actual time periods.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels and man both Fall. A certain demon meets a certain angel.

Falling hadn’t hurt, at least physically.  Mentally it was an excruciating event that blazed through a demon’s tortured mind for time uncountable until eventually it dulled to a minor throbbing, then finally behaved like an old war wound that acted up when the weather was bad.  One never forgot God’s Grace and the reminder of the empty hollow in a demon’s unholy soul reared its ugly head for most of them.  Only the Princes of Hell and the Adversary himself seemed unaffected by their sundering from Heaven. 

And him.  Falling hadn’t had much effect on him, although he had to fake it with all the wailing and gnashing of teeth around him.  Nobody seemed too pleased about ending up in this burning shithole when they really coveted Heaven’s prime real estate.  He played along, wondering why he had Fallen with the rest.  One moment he was coaxing the climbing roses twining up Heaven’s gates to bud out in the most beautiful golden yellow roses, the next he’s laying flat on his back on an intensely hot, intensely hard surface of soot-covered granite while the voices of newly-minted demons howled around him.

 _Trust me_ whispered the Grace. _This is part of the ineffable Plan.  You are where I need you.  Now forget. You will know what to do when it needs to be done._

So the Grace guided him secretly, first convincing him to act as traumatized as all the other Fallen angels until the masses of Satan’s rebellion calmed down enough to start to get to work.  There were not many plans that could be made yet.  Heaven and Hell existed, but not much between them but some firmament awaiting further development.  But the demons were told to bide their time.  The Adversary had heard whispers of Her plan to create a thing called “Earth” and populate it with “living creatures,” including some made in Her own image.  They would have their work cut out for them poisoning this new idea made flesh very soon.

Until then they concentrated on building up the desolate landscape around them into something habitable.  Habitable at least from the point of view of demons, anyway.  The reluctant demon half-heartedly helped out.  Nothing would grow here in the hot, barren ground despite his efforts, but it didn’t matter.  The others harassed him for attempting to recreate plant life, something they saw as a creation of God.  Eventually he gave up, deciding instead to help build parts of a great city among the barren landscape with its blood-red sky.  It passed the time and he was less likely to attract the attention of higher-ranking demons looking for an unfortunate soul to bully. 

Drab day followed drab day with little to do once the city was built.  The demons resorted to picking on one another for entertainment.  He was no exception but being one of the lower-ranking ones, his choice of targets was quite limited.  One did not simply go pick a fight with the highly-favored Belial, worthless asshole he may be.  He took to spending much time shut away in small, hot, hard abode he called his own.

If sleep were invented yet, he would have spent a lot of time in slumber.  Instead he spent a lot of time lost in thought or whatever activity he could find to pass way the ennui.  Lately he had taken to carving pictures of plants into what flat pieces of granite lying about the place he could find.  He wasn’t very good at it.  Excelling at art wasn’t what he was interested in, though.  Alleviating boredom was.  Little did he know things were about to change.

The door rudely banged open without as much as a knock.  He glared at it thinking just a bit of privacy would have been nice even in Hell.  This was his abode and he didn’t like the idea of just anyone being able to enter whenever they felt like it.

It was Hastur, a right bastard who was almost tailor-made for life in Hell.  He was currying favor and climbing the ranks fast, well on his way to Dukedom.

“Can I help you?” the lower-ranking demon asked dryly while adding _you little ass kisser_ silently in his own thoughts.

“Yeah.  Who are you again?  You’re coming up a complete blank.”

“I don’t know.  I’ve forgotten my name.  It had too many syllables anyway and just wouldn’t work down here.  Most of the lads wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.”   _Go away.  I have things to do._

The sarcasm flew a mile over Hastur’s head.  Not that he cared if one demon insulted another as long as he wasn’t on the receiving end.  “You’re wanted by Dagon.  Better make it quick.  It sounds like things are happening Upstairs and the Princes are excited about it.”

“Uh.  Sure.  I’ll be right there.”  He rose unenthusiastically from the table he was seated at and brushed the rock dust off his tunic.

Less than ten minutes later he found himself in Dagon’s throne room, the walls freshly decorated with bas relief of the denizens of Hell gleefully torturing angels whose faces were twisted up in pain.  Between the décor and the faces of Dagon’s court all being turned to watch him as the major domo announced his arrival, he wanted to slither off into the nearest crack and not come out.  He wondered why he would think of slithering when he had a pair of perfectly good legs.

Something stirred slighting in him then, making his spirit feel a little less heavy.  Just as quickly as he noticed it, it had fled, leaving the feeling behind.  He took strength from it and stood up just a bit straighter, if only for a moment.

“My lord,” he said making the proper obeisance to the figure perched on the impressive polished granite throne up on the dais.  He was no fool.  As much as he despised everyone and thing around him, he knew he had to dance attendance on the Princes.  They had developed a nice Lake of Fire they were itching to try out.  He wasn’t eager to be the first test subject.  “You have summoned me.”

Dagon was deep in conversation with a counselor, comparing notes on scrolls and leaving him to stand on the rug cooling his heels until he was ready to address him.  The Prince was keen on reminding the riff raff of their status in this new Lowerarchy.  This one particularly needed a few lessons in respect from what he heard.  He never did anything outright subversive, but he wasn’t exactly toeing the line like he should, either.  But he should get sorted out soon enough.  Everyone was experiencing the infernal equivalent of cabin fever.  Now that Upstairs had finally established the Garden, all those restless demons would have their hands too full to cause the Lowerarchy much trouble.

Dagon paused to coolly look the Fallen angel over.  Hell had already twisted many of the minions the Adversary had given him charge of, but not so much this one.  Aside from the black tunic and wings, he still appeared very much like he did in Heaven – a beautiful face with sad, deep set brown eyes framed by delicate brown curls.  Dagon decided his choice had been right.  The demon needed to be corrupted and quickly.  He remembered this one had a thing in Heaven for rule-bending, but nobody knew quite why he joined the Rebellion.  For all intents and purposes he was a square peg in a round hole – Heaven would have eventually become too dull for him, but he wasn’t interested in the complete cruelty that was Hell.

“Yes . . .”  The Prince paused a moment without a name to insert next.  When the figure kneeling on the carpet before him, head slightly bowed, didn’t supply one, he moved on “Rise.  Speaking of your mission will be easier without you groveling before me.”  Instructions followed as soon as the demon unfolded himself to stand morosely before Dagon’s throne.

“Now get up there and cause some trouble,” commanded the Prince.  “Maybe the fresh air will do you some good.  Infiltrate and find out how to can make life miserable for those new humans.  Then get it done.  You’ll need a disguise.  Here.  This should hide you well.” 

With a lazy wave of Dagon’s hand, the demon fell face-first on his stomach.  The shock surprised him as his belly hit the carpet.  Dazed, he tried to get to his feet only to find he lacked limbs.  His eyes would have widened in shock at such a discovery had he still possessed eyelids.  His smaller, lithe shape made him quite the creature to look at with his bright yellow eyes set in an emerald shade and a thin, lighter blue stripe running down his spine, the color jutting off into the green here and there.

Someone snickered when they saw his new form.  “Crawly,” they said and the name was picked up by everyone, and he heard them call it amongst the laughter.  Crawly, resigned to his fate and his new name, slithered out to complete his mission.  He was extremely glad nobody could see a serpent blush with humiliation.

Paradise.  Lush Paradise and filled with many of the plants he had been encouraged by Him to create and cultivate in Heaven’s gardens.  Crawly had draped his length neatly on the sturdy branch of a tree watching and waiting.  What a boring existence these humans had, romping all day with the animals.  He was supposed to disrupt that somehow?  At least Downstairs had granted him some time to infiltrate and observe.  It was going to be hard to trip up people whose most exciting activity was giving names to everything in sight.  Not he minded having to spend time up here amongst the plants he created and nurtured before they were transferred here.  He wished he could have been one of those who helped build this place, but being among the greenness was very nice.  He felt more at home here than down in the overly hot, rocky depths of Hell.

No one noticed one extra snake in the mix.

Everyone noticed the new tree.

Once He had left the Garden after instructing his two pets to not touch the tree’s fruit, Crawly stopped his observations and started making plans.  Another warm, cloudless night fell and one demon unwound himself to silently move from the ordinary tree he had taken up residence in to the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.  You could almost hear the capital letters when its name was uttered.  It was a tree that had “Doom” written all over it.

The Grace once again moved within him and he knew instantly what he needed to do.  For a fleeting moment he knew, registering shock and betrayal.   _You needed me to Fall?  Why do I need to test them? Am I just Your pawn?_ But the moment passed quickly as the Grace realized its mistake and soothed Crawly’s tortured, scarred soul into a state of forgetfulness.  He would know in time.

_They really don’t deserve to be shit on, the ignorant fools.  Not much I can do about it, though.  It’s not like I’m allowed free will._

Free will.  Hmm . . . maybe he couldn’t personally have it, but could he give it?  The though intrigued him all night.  Blind obedience was all the humans had, just like him.  Free will.  It sure beat singing heavenly praises because you had no other choice.  Or sitting in serpentine form in a Very Important Tree plotting a spot of trouble.  Freedom . . . Wouldn’t that be nice?  His tongue flicked in and out absently as he thought about that waiting for his chance to act.

His patience paid off.  He had the woman’s attention.  It was only a matter of time now before all Hell broke loose.  Scratch that.  All Heaven broke loose.  And it wasn’t that finger-wagging scold he thought was going to be.  Wrath, banishment of the humans, the use of his original angelic name and a searing pain in his head that told him his eyes were never going to be the same again. 

(He was wrong about that one.  They would always be the same – yellow with vertical slitted pupils that he could not change no matter how hard he tried.  He could shift every other feature in his body but never his eyes.  The puzzling thing was that they were a perfect, golden yellow reminiscent of the roses he was working on just before he Fell.  The last angelic task he’d ever perform.  For some reason he found that comforting.  Like it was a sign he wasn’t alone, sitting right there in the middle of a curse.  It puzzled him.)

He disentangled himself from the tree and slithered north before a strange tugging motion deep in his brain pulled him to the east.  Ok, east it was.  If He wanted Crawly to Exit Stage East, Crawly was more than happy to comply.  He felt he narrowly escaped a smiting already.  No need to further antagonize anyone with the ability to smite.

Storm clouds had begun to gather, darkening the sky, but a flickering, warm light covered the East Gate in a soft glow as he approached.  Standing in that glow looking a bit worried about the approaching thunderheads stood a blond-haired angel holding a flaming sword as if he really had no clue what to do with it.  Crawly shrank back, waited and listened.

A pleasant, tenor voice spoke out. “Here, take this.  I have a feeling you’re going to need it.  I’m sorry it had to end this way, but if you try to come back there’s going to be more trouble.  Safe journey to you.”

The humans given the world’s first marching orders, he decided to try to engage the now lonely angel in a bit of conversation.  “Hello.  Well, that didn’t go as I expected.”

The angel looked at him with a look of surprise for a moment that cleared off his face rather quickly.  “I really shouldn’t be talking to you, demon.”

“To be honest I’m not much of a demon.  I never intended . . . this . . .” he gestured towards the footprints leading off away from the Garden with his delicate tail.  “First offense and all.  And what’s so wrong about knowing the difference between good and evil?”

The angel shrugged.  “I don’t know.  But it must be bad if you’re involved.  I try not to question Her ineffable Plan.”

 “Yeah . . . ineffable . . .”  Crawly slithered closer.  “Mind if I join you?”

He sat under the shelter of the tree when he received no response from the pensive angel.  “I gave her my sword.  Poor things.  It’s getting dark, it’s cold out there at night and they have nothing to keep them warm.  They’re going to need fire.  I hope I did the right thing.”

Crawly snorted, although it came out as more of a hiss.  “I doubt you could actually do something bad,” he said sarcastically.

They sat in silence a while.  Finally Crawly said, “I’m Crawly, by the way.  And you are?”

“Aziraphale,” came the absent-minded answer.  “Principality, Angel of the 3rd Choir and Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“That’s quite a title, angel,” replied the snake who suddenly felt less like a Crawly.  Crawly was no longer him.

They sat there unmoving as sheets of rain fell illuminated by lightning and punctuated by thunder for several hours.  The cool air finally got to Crawly as he found his body less happy about moving when he tried to shift positions.  Damn cold-bloodedness.   Did this body come with multiple forms?

“Excuse me.”

Aziraphale came out of his reverie to give him a tentative smile and nod.  Crawly slithered into the underbrush once again and _concentrated_.  With a hollow-sounding pop, he was suddenly standing upright wearing a humanoid form sporting a beautiful set of midnight black wings and not much else.  Was it too much to ask that his scales became clothing?  With a sigh, he waved his wrist while thinking about a black robe and one wrapped itself around him.  Good.  He wouldn’t have to stand there in the trees sewing together fig leaves like the victims of his mischief.

“The snake form was getting a little old,” he smiled apologetically at Aziraphale.

The blue eyes of the angel looked him up and down before holding steady eye contact with him.  Yet Aziraphale looked a bit uncomfortable with it, fidgeting with his flowing waves of blond hair as he spoke.  “I don’t think you got your form quite right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you still have snake eyes.”

Crawly, in a panic, found a convenient puddle to look at his face in.  Hands at the sides of his face, he tried over and over to make them brown.  All that happened was in a fluster of uncontrolled power his brown, curly, shoulder-length hair turned a bright shade of auburn and refused to budge.  Something told him this eye color issue was permanent.  _Well that’s just great._

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it.  All things considered you got off rather lightly,” came the slightly haughty tone of Aziraphale from his spot under the tree.  

 “They told me to get up there and make some trouble . . .” he trailed off, frustrated.  “I didn’t mean to Fall.  I didn’t mean this mess to happen.”

“Maybe you could ask for forgiveness.”

Crawly whirled on him, “I don’t belong Up There, either.  I . . . I just want my garden back.”

With that he left Aziraphale standing his post at the gate.  The angel caught a faint whiff of divinity not associated with divine punishment coming off of the demon as he trudged off.  It gave Aziraphale something to puzzle over for a while.  But in the end you can’t second guess ineffability and whatever the Plan had in store for Crawly was really none of his business.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Belial, which is either another name for the devil or is a high-ranking demon in his own right depending on where you research, basically means "lacking worth," so that's why I had Crowley think of him as a worthless asshole. 
> 
> \- Crowley's snake form is based on the sorong green tree python, which is a very pretty snake. I think the Snake of Eden should be beautiful, but looks like nightmare fuel in many depictions. Is anyone really going to take the advice of something that's going to give you bad dreams?


	2. Mesopotamia, Sometime in The 3rd Millennia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has to trust Crowley in an emergency, but can he bring himself to do so?

Civilization was well under way and chugging along rather peacefully at the moment thanks in part to Aziraphale’s constant, invisible good works.  He hadn’t seen the demon in quite some time nor heard of any deeds he could attribute to him.  It made him idly wonder while walking along the stone wall of the small city that sprung up near the Euphrates if Crawly had managed to get himself discorporated again.  Those strange eyes of his weren’t without their risks, nor was his job, for that matter. 

The demon seemed to only do the amount of mischief needed to keep his superiors off his back, barring missions that he had no choice but to undertake, but in the end, some of his schemes snowballed into evil far greater than he anticipated.  That was merely due to being rather inexperienced at this whole temptation gig.  (He’d develop his finesse later and become very good at it.)  Oftentimes he’d seemed genuinely surprised by the outcome, for example, thinking the difference between good and evil wasn’t that big of a deal.  Aziraphale wouldn’t admit it to himself or anyone else, but there were times when he didn’t see the issue, either.  He was quick to put away such thoughts as they could land him in a heap of trouble.  Angels didn’t have the luxury of doubt.

Crawly seemed to.  For a demon he had an astounding amount of insecurities and vulnerabilities.  It was probably a good thing he was stationed on Earth.  They would have eaten him alive by now Down Below and Aziraphale would have been left with a rival who really was concerned with stirring up the worst kind of trouble they could.  Crawly’s mischief was, most of the time, fairly easy to take care of or outright ignore in favor of doing some good to balance things out.

Aziraphale surveyed the flooded fields before him, knowing that little could be salvaged from this year’s crop.  The city still had barley in its granaries and a few miracles would make sure they didn’t run out, but the people would still suffer.  He could use his powers to keep them from starving, but it would be suspicious if there was always enough to keep everyone well fed.  He learned a few bodies ago that people viewed miracles with the same superstition as the devil’s work.  He’d be damn . . . he was not going to end up a martyr again. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a farmer approaching him with a worried expression on his face.  “What are we going to do?” he asked, surveying the damage with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder encouragingly, “The gods have never let us down.  We shall pray, continue living our pious lifestyle and we will survive.  It’s not going to be easy, but we will get through it.” 

Saying “gods” always bothered him, but orders from Up Above were to allow the people their polytheistic religion.  Belief in monotheism was a seed that needed to be planted and slowly nurtured.  In time, future civilizations would come around.  For now, it was enough they were practicing a religion peacefully instead of raiding and killing the next town over for not believing in the correct set of gods.  Plus a good deed done in any deity’s name was a good deed done in His name.  Still, Aziraphale felt like some kind of traitor leading his flock in prayers to the likes of Enlil and Inanna.

Aziraphale crouched to bless the flooded soil, his palm hovering above the water-soaked field filled with sick plants.  He couldn’t help but think of Crawly who would be upset over the state of the plant life here.  Aziraphale had never in his thousand or so years on Earth come across anyone more interested in green, growing things.  Crawly would have secretly been developing crops that survived soggy fields and dry conditions just on evil principle, of course.  You can’t have plagues of locusts if you don’t provide them with food.  It certainly wouldn’t be to assist those humans he was becoming fond of over time, thank you very much.

A sigh at the thought of his adversary escaped his lips as he stood up and smoothed down his pleated goatskin skirt.  With a wan smile towards the farmer, he said “I have prayed to Enlil to stop the storms and Enki to pull back the waters.  We shall make a sacrifice of grain to them tomorrow at worship.”

With that, he headed back inside the city walls and walked the few blocks to the tiny stone house beside the small temple he led.  Gabriel had told him last week that the storms would let up, even though they weren’t the fault of Upstairs in the first place.  But they were trying to make a good impression on these people in the religion department so nobody complained too much about Aziraphale’s request to control the weather.   The paperwork he had had to fill out was a pain in the wings, though.  What was Michael thinking when he implemented that stupid system?  Gabriel sure wasn’t happy about being turned into an upper-level paper pusher, especially when paper hadn’t even been invented on Earth yet.   That was scheduled to happen some undetermined time in the future.

Aziraphale’s hair, dark in color to match the locals this time around, was soaked with sweat by the time he reached home.  He favored blue, so his eyes were always that shade unless having the unusual eye color threatened his corporation’s existence.  Unlike Crawly, he could change the hue of his irises at whim and had a few times gone with brown or black like the local population he infiltrated.  It was easier than explaining to Requisitions that he gotten himself killed over his eye color.  Making bodies took time and energy.  They’d rather not waste that effort on someone who couldn’t be bothered to blend in when required.

Even though he didn’t require it, he poured a cup of lukewarm water from the pitcher on his table.   Getting a drink gave him something to do while he pondered the situation and made him look more human if someone from town happened to walk through his door.  Keeping up appearances was important.  He paced the floor with his clay cup of unneeded water as he mused.  Weather happened.   You had to deal with it.  But there had to be a way of getting people away from the idea that weather was somehow always brought about by divine intervention, as if gods were some kind of celestial busy bodies interfering at every turn.  In some ways Heaven was, but it was better for people to not realize this.

Then he felt it – large waves of divine Grace lapped at him like the surf of the ocean against the sand of the beach.  What?  He wasn’t expecting a visit.  No reports were due. He glanced over his shoulder towards the stone house’s door as a black-eyed, olive-skinned young man with unruly dark hair came crashing in, divinity radiating off of him in panicked sheets.

“Angel!” he cried, out of breath, “You’ve got to get out of here.  The region’s lousy with earthquakes. The city down the road is all but demolished and more quakes keep coming with every hour.”

Blue eyes widening as he registered the slim golden-hued slivers of the young man’s irises on either side of pupils blown wide by fear, he slammed down his cup.  “What have you done, Crawly?  Wasn’t the Flood enough?”

“Crowley,” corrected the demon, reminding Aziraphale he changed his name ages ago.  “It’s not me.  I’m about two steps away from having a meeting with Beelzebub over my lack of performance because you’ve turned this region into such a place of goodness and love.  Sometimes nature just happens.”  His look said, _Don’t you dare blame me for that Flood.  I didn’t cause all that evil and it was Upstairs’ decision to take such a drastic measure, not mine._

 _Crowley, so help me,_ thought Aziraphale irritably, having no time for the demon’s antics.  He’d be tricked by him on more than one embarrassing occasion.  “No.  If you’re speaking the truth, I can’t leave these people.”

He had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth when the earth heaved and his stone house fell in on both of them.  They endured the terrible shaking for close to a minute while stones continued to pile on top of them, putting pressure on their bodies that would have killed lesser beings.  Aziraphale’s wings were out, shielding him from the crushing stones that threatened to be this corporation’s grave.  He heard Crowley give a muffled cry somewhere to his left.  Something painfully cracked around his right shoulder blade, leaving him in searing pain and he realized the weight of the ruins surrounding him was too much for even his celestial wings to hold up.  The bones in them were starting to break.

Carefully, carefully once the Earth was still again and through a haze of pain that left a red mist of shooting stars before his eyes, he miracled the rubble off of him piece by piece.  It was the best the wounded angel could do given the stress being put on his body and its abilities.  It took a good half hour.  An eerily quiet half hour.  No sound came from either Crowley or the villagers stuck under their own demolished buildings.  Aziraphale began to worry.

Shaking with pain and sweat, he got enough rock of off him to crawl out to safety, gritting his teeth as a few feathers were tugged on as he made his way to freedom through the small hole.  The silence was really setting off alarms now.  “Crowley?  Where are you?”

Why did he care about that demon?  It’s not like they were exactly friends.

A moan came from behind him before a hole blasted out of a large pile of stone as the demon wished the top half of it away so he could stagger to his feet.  The angel thought for a moment his hair had suddenly shifted to auburn until he realized that wasn’t Crowley’s hair, but blood gushing from a large gash near the top right of his head.  Half-clotted blood wetted down the usually unruly strands, turning them a deep shade of red.  The rest of Crowley appeared to be ok as the blood seemed to be limited to that gash.  He had instinctually snapped his wings back into the ethereal plane the moment he stood up.  Aziraphale caught a glimpse of sleek black primaries, the first he had seen of the demon’s wings since Eden.

Crowley hissed in pain.  “Oooooh.  Never passed out before.  So that’s what that’s like.” 

The golden eyes met Aziraphale’s blue ones as the angel stood there with one wing hanging limply from his back and the other bloodied.   “Thank Heaven you’re ok, Crowley.  I’ve . . . I’ve . . . got to save my people.”

He started to pick his way toward the direction of the street when he was stopped by a hand placed softly on his uninjured shoulder.  He turned around to Crowley.  “No!  I have to save them!”

“If you go like that, they’ll stone you to death,” Crowley said in a more gentle tone than Aziraphale would expect from a demon.  “They’re not ready for winged beings.  Here, my head’s fine now.  Let me heal you.”

The wound on Crowley’s head was gone, although a bloody mat of hair remained where the deep cut has been.  Aziraphale recoiled from him, a look of horror on his face.  Angels and demons did not touch each other’s wings unless they were violently ripping them off of one another in the heat of battle.  He didn’t even realize demons retained their ability to heal, but he certainly wasn’t going to trust his wings to one, even if he occasionally got along with this particular example of Hell’s population.

“Angel,” pleaded Crowley. 

Aziraphale stayed frozen to the spot, undecided.  He looked longingly towards the street visible beyond what was left of his front door.

“Aziraphale, please.  Your wings are too far gone for you to heal quickly yourself in your state.  Let me use some of my power to get things started,” the tone was softer, more urgent and accompanied by Crowley holding out a hand to him.  A hand that all but radiated Grace.

What?

_I’m hallucinating. I must have hit my head, too._

Seeing the logic in the suggestion despite himself, he screwed his eyes tightly shut, swallowed and took Crowley’s hand.  The demon guided him over to a safe corner and instructed him to have a seat on a relatively stable pile of rubble.  Sitting there ramrod straight, he prepared himself to have his wings painfully removed by his adversary, then chided himself for such a silly thought.  They might not always enjoy each other’s company, but Crowley wasn’t the type to cause bodily harm.

“Hold on. I don’t know if this is going to hurt you or not.  Seriously, I don’t.  Demons are not exactly selfless creatures who help one another.  I’m going to be putting a lot of power into you quickly, so I’m not sure it’s going to be a fun experience.  Besides, I need to get a bone back in place first or it’s going to take lots more of my power and longer time to fix you.  Brace yourself.”

With a loud snap and a scream from Aziraphale, the wing bone was in place.  As he hunched forward, whimpering, Crowley prepared to use his healing abilities on someone other than himself for the first time since he Fell.  Steadying himself, Crowley sucked in then blew out a breath even though neither he nor Aziraphale required oxygen to survive.  Some habits are hard to stop, even temporarily.  He consciously didn’t take a breath after that as his hands were trembling pretty well on their own without any added bodily movements.  Gingerly he put them on Aziraphale as the angel stared over his shoulder the best he could, preparing himself for more pain.  Crowley was right.  It wasn’t a pleasant experience.   

“Oh blessed Heaven it hurts.” moaned the wounded angel, sobbing as he felt his wing start to knit itself back together under Crowley’s heavy encouragement.  It took all his strength to not pull away from the pain the demon’s healing was causing him.  He could feel the apology coming off of Crowley even though the demon concentrated on his work silently.

It wasn’t long before he was mended enough to take over himself.  Crowley eased off as Aziraphale put his own powers to work to mend the flesh wounds that were left.  It took the better part of an hour, but between the two of them, they had Aziraphale’s wings healed enough for him to winch back in.  He miracled closed the two very noticeable rips in his tunic.  His celestial white feathers were splattered with blood and some primaries had been torn painfully out in his struggle to get out of the rubble, but it was good enough.  Wounds were closed and bones whole.

On to the town.

Without more than a grateful nod to the exhausted-looking Crowley, he scrambled out on to the street into a world that no longer contained his thriving, growing city of humans.  The sun beat down cruelly on silent piles of rubble that were once vibrant houses full of life.  A large mudslide had slipped off the hills the city was settled just below, covering one third of the streets and structures in a viscous quagmire nothing could have survived.  A devastated Aziraphale heard a sob coming from nearby.

“I’m coming!  Help’s coming!”

He worked at pulling the rocks off one by one, tearing up his hands and arms in the process.  He didn’t care.  He didn’t even feel the pain thanks to his human body reacting by pumping out enough adrenaline to numb any sensation he had.  It wasn’t long before he pulled out a young woman, just married by him to a young local craftsman mere months before.  She and her husband were hoping to start a family soon.

“Iltani, don’t worry. You’re fine,” he soothed, brushing the young woman’s hair out of her eyes.  She was covered in blood, bruises and broken bones.  A few gasping breaths escaped her lungs, her eyes never truly focusing on him before her spirit left her body.  He couldn’t be sure she even recognized him.   There wasn’t a chance for him to try to save her; she was gone before he could apply any healing powers.  Angelic tears fell on her, washing her face and making her appear beautiful despite her severely crushed eye socket.  He cradled the body for a bit and wished her happiness in Heaven.

“Hello? Is anyone out there?” 

The call echoed through the stillness with no response.  He could feel no life under the many ruins stretching out before him.  Crowley had emerged from the remains of Aziraphale’s house and was picking his way slowly through the rubble.  His face told Aziraphale that he wasn’t sensing any human life signs, either.  The demon slowly shook his head.

“The farmers!”  Aziraphale exclaimed, rushing out of the city the best he could despite the rubble. “They’re working the fields.  They survived.”

But he was wrong.  The quagmire that made up the fields became like liquid with the shaking of the earth.  Anyone working the crops was sucked down into the sogginess where they drowned, unable to get themselves out once the earthquake was over and the ground returned to a state of thick ooze. Bodies were stuck in the mud, the tops of their heads barely visible or lying face first in the muck.  One or two had landed on their backs, but they had slowly continued to sink as they struggled to get out until mud filled their noses and lungs.  Aziraphale was unable to even budge them without resorting to using his power.

Behind him Crowley stood with a solemn face dirtied by blood and dust.  His eyes stood out bright against the darkness of the dirt, full of sympathy for the angel.  Sympathy from a demon for the tears that ran down his face and -- might Aziraphale even dare think it -- the lives lost.

“What do I do now?”  Aziraphale whispered brokenly.

Crowley quietly surveyed the damage before responding.

“Come on,” he said.  “There is nothing we can do here anymore.  We should go before more quakes happen and we end up like them.  There are others for you to save.” 

His face drawn and tired from the whole ordeal, he held his hand out to his rival.  Aziraphale just stood there mourning the loss of the town for a moment before turning away, his eyes bright with unshed tears.  Taking Crowley’s hand, he allowed the demon to help him up out of the muddy field. 

Sobbing, he threw his arms around Crowley’s neck before he realized what he was doing.  Crowley flinched in surprise, but then slowly he returned the hug.

Crowley’s voice broke the sound of Aziraphale’s loud sobbing a minute or two later.  “This isn’t Heaven, angel.  Shit happens here.  You know that.  It would be best to get used to it.”  Aziraphale felt his arms being carefully disentangled from Crowley’s shoulders.  “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

 With heavy hearts, the two of them walked away from ruins of the once-vibrant city.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I looked up what people would wear, what their gods would be, etc., etc. but I didn't do extensive research on it. So if it contains historical inaccuracies, my apologies. I looked at it as just a little vignette where the characters' interactions are more important than being historically correct.


	3. France, Sometime During Louis XIV's Reign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's antics annoy Aziraphale. A bit of silly fluff since things get a little angsty in these vignettes.

He had no idea why Gabriel wanted him to visit the court of Louis XIV for the summer, but Aziraphale soon found himself packed off to France to become a temporary resident of Versailles under the cover of being visiting nobility from England.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the change of scenery or what the French could do with a building – the Hall of Mirrors was quite frankly amazing despite the filth of the era – it was just that he usually knew what his missions were to entail before he embarked on them.  What Upstairs was getting out of him hobnobbing with the elite of France was apparently out of his paygrade.  He found it rather off-putting that they couldn’t or wouldn’t toss him at least a few details. 

Plus, he wasn’t being very successful since he never was very social to being with and on top of that, his fashion sense was basically non-existent.  Exasperated by his inability to dress properly enough to fit in, Gabriel sent down a few angels with pre-made outfits for Aziraphale to wear when his ability to choose his own clothes failed in the most spectacular way.  He had become such a source of gossip that it was decided the court’s memories needed to be wiped and Aziraphale reintroduced so that he could integrate properly instead of being Versailles’ laughing stock.

“Do try to learn some small talk,” he was advised.  “We just can’t be back down here cleaning up another mess for you.”

Properly chastised, he learned enough canned phrases to get by without looking like the bumbling Englishman he was at heart.  But still he had no idea why gossiping with the crème de la crème of the Sun King’s court mattered in the first place.

Until the duchess arrived. 

New to court, she quickly gained favor among the young men with her fashionable deep green and light grey brocade dresses with showy lace collars and plunging necklines.  Her nearly iridescent black hair was fashionably styled with tight curls at her temples and across her forehead.  Bright and personable, she could do the social dance better than anyone and soon even the king had his eye on her.  Nobody seemed to think the dark green glasses that hid her eyes were even the slightest bit odd.

It became a game of wile and thwart between them -- one that was played on a level above human perception.  The “duchess” seemed to enjoy it very much; Aziraphale found it rather tedious.

About two months after she first arrived, the court was enjoying some sunny, warm weather out in the vast expanse of Versailles’ expansive gardens.  Aziraphale was finally able to catch her.  For once she was actually walking alone, so soon she found herself rudely grabbed by the arm, then dragged off into a private alcove in the shrubbery.

Aziraphale snatched off the green glasses and Crowley’s unmistakable hellish pupils stared back at him with a grin.

“What are you playing at?” Aziraphale demanded.

“Hello to you, too, angel.  I could ask you the exact same question.”

“Apparently I’m here to keep an eye on you.”

Crowley sighed.  “Always thwarting me, aren’t you?  I can’t even skip countries to escape you.”  She plucked a couple of leaves off the large, gathered sleeve of her gown.  “You could be gentler next time you grab me.  This stuff doesn’t come cheap, annoying as women’s fashions are.”

“New body?”

“No.  Just shape shifted.”  She bounced her ample bosom at the angel.  “Do you think they’re big enough?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Go home, Crowley.  There’s nothing you can do here now.  And again, what are you up to?”

“Oh, just tempting the king.  We could use him to do a few favors . . . absolute monarch and all that. Times are a-changing, angel.  The human population is outpacing the demon one and the old ways just aren’t as effective anymore.  I figured a king can help me spread a bit of misery that much faster.  Those royals can really spread it around when they want to with all those taxes on the peasants and stuff.”  She paused a moment as his accompanying gestures caused his elaborate, expensive dress to catch on the branch of a shrub.  “Blessed lace!  I’m not exactly fond of the female fashion around these parts.  Whose idea was it to use yards of fabric just for the sleeves?  I could sleep four in them.  And don’t get me started on bustles.”

Aziraphale almost started in on his own complaints about men’s breeches, broad hats and delicately curled long hair, but he shoved that thought aside for more important ones.  “Really, my dear.  You know I can’t let you do that.”

Just then a horrified thought landed in his mind, and probably on his face, too, given the delicate eyebrow Crowley raised.  When she put her mind to it, that demon could shape shift her features into quite the gorgeous woman.  No wonder the king was starting to take notice. 

“Are you sleeping with any of them?”

A look of positive disgust crossed the demon’s beautiful face.  “Are you crazy? Have you _smelled_ these people?  When the hell did bathing regularly go out of style?  I wouldn’t touch them with Hastur’s disembodied arm.”

“I was more worried about you touching them with your own body parts.”  

“Oh come off it.  I have no desire to make that kind of effort with humans.”  The question of who she’d make the effort with hung heavily in the air for a moment until approaching footfalls and lively conversation caused both of them to look up towards the path through the shrubbery.

It was a group of some of the younger, nosier courtiers.  Crowley snatched back the glasses, replaced them on her face then grabbed Aziraphale’s shoulder.  “Quick, act like you’re courting me.  It’s the only reason we’d be alone and I have a reputation to keep.  Need I remind you that you do, too?  Oh, don’t give me that look.  I’m not asking you to kiss me.  Here.  Hold my hand.  We’ll pretend like I’m really interested in what you’re saying even though I never am.”

Trying not to feel insulted, Aziraphale took a hold of Crowley’s long-fingered hand and made some embarrassing remark about her elaborately done hair while the demon twisted a lock of it around a finger and tittered in that annoying way the ladies of the court had.  The young group passing by, some outright staring at them, others giving subtle glances their direction.  Their facial expressions ranged from scandalized to amused as they noticed the “couple.”  Then they were gone, laughing away as they discussed their brand new piece of gossip.  Aziraphale quickly dropped Crowley’s hand.

“Well, angel,” Crowley drawled.  “You’ll be the talk of the court now.  The king will be even more interested in me since I’m playing hard to get.”

“We’re leaving.”

“Just when the fun’s about to begin?  Hmmmm . . . If we’re heading back to England, you’re going to have to hire a coach to take us to Calais, ask around about any ship that’s crossing the Channel . . . might possibly have to wait _months_ for coach and ship to be available at the same time . . . _and_ hope I don’t give you the slip while you’re taking care of all that business.  That should give me just enough time to convince the king to see things my way.”

“No. We’re leaving _now_.”

With that declaration Aziraphale snapped his fingers and they both disappeared from France to reappear in an alley in London.  Seemingly unaffected by the abrupt change in scenery, Crowley took a moment to shift his shape back to male and wish himself up some respectable merchant-class clothing in shades of black and red, muttering something about good riddance to women’s court dress.  He adjusted the now black-lensed glasses perched on his nose.  Aziraphale followed suit, but his clothing was in warm shades of brown instead.

“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” said Crowley brightly, clearly not bothered at all by the fact that his plans were ruined.  It meant that he’d have less of a report to write with the added bonus of knowing if the peasants in France were miserable under the Sun King’s rule, it wasn’t his fault.  “Except next time I’m really going to have to teach you how to flirt properly.”

He gave Aziraphale an ironic bow and headed off down the street, calling behind him, “I’m going up to that little tavern you like on Oxford.  You’re free to join me if you want.  I hear they have a new kind of ale.”

Aziraphale just shook his head in an exasperated manner before chasing after him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- No, people didn't bathe very often during those times. It was after the Black Plague that it was believed that water spread the disease, so people bathed in alcohol or other substances instead, for the most part. They covered up their stench with perfumes. Louis XIV did have seven bathtubs, but he mostly soaked in them rather than actually bathe.
> 
> -Versailles also stank because there were not enough bathrooms for the amount of people that stayed there. Courtiers would often just find a convenient corner and do their business there. 
> 
> \- Louis XIV did have several mistresses throughout his life, so it would be possible for Crowley to have been flirting with him, pretending to want that position. Some, like Madame du Pompadour, who was Louis XV's mistress, were very politically influential. Besides, I find the idea of Crowley seducing a king kind of funny.


	4. Germany, WWII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley have their own little war effort going, but Aziraphale also needs to keep Crowley from falling apart during this difficult time.

They were at Aziraphale’s apartment above the small shop he ran in a small German town one would have called “quaint” before the ravages of war visited it, Aziraphale on the couch reading the daily newspaper, Crowley hunched over a glass of brandy at the kitchen table.

“Really, my dear, I’m worried about the amount you’re putting away,” said Aziraphale as he scanned more depressing anti-Semitic propaganda spread by the Nazi government.  It was getting worse here day by day, which is why he stuck it out rather than flee back to England and his familiar bookshop. 

All was quiet over there when he left several years ago, but he knew it wasn’t to last.  He had packed up every single book he owned, rented a farmhouse up north and stored the boxes there away from London.  He knew once Great Britain entered the war, the Germans would eventually set their sights on attacking the island in one way or another.  A rural area nowhere near a large, thriving city was his books’ best chance at survival.  Crowley’s precious 1926 Bentley later joined them on the property, parked in the barn and covered lovingly with tarps to keep it clean. He would have parked it in the kitchen if Aziraphale had allowed him to do so. 

“But it’s more climate controlled there than that drafty barn,” the demon protested.

Aziraphale reminded him it wasn’t good manners to place cars in a house, even if you could miracle away any damage done later.  Besides, he had someone checking on the house once in a while, making sure the temperature and humidity were just right for his collection.  It would be hard to explain why an older Bentley was being stored right next to the stove.  Crowley shrugged, but clearly didn’t understand the problem.  He did thank Aziraphale for the space anyway before heading back to London in some rather plain looking car built in the ‘30s somewhere on the continent proper.  Aziraphale wasn’t good with his vehicle makes and models.  It didn’t matter.  The thing didn’t survive the Blitz but Crowley wasn’t broken up about it.  His love was reserved for the Bentley.

Off to Germany Aziraphale went, thinking that his counterpart was content to stay as far away from Nazis as possible.  He remembered the Spanish Inquisition.  It took decades before Crowley was over the trauma he suffered from witnessing that.

Imagine Aziraphale’s surprise to see Crowley one day sporting the uniform of a Nazi officer as he went about his daily shopping.  He had to be on a mission because the demon would never voluntarily lift a finger to aid the Nazi’s kind of cruelty.  Crowley’s body language screamed pure misery as he stood there beside a military vehicle discussing something of importance with two other Nazi officers.  They seemed very interested in whatever the subject was; Crowley’s face remained impassive behind his sunglasses despite the signals his body was giving off.   Aziraphale was unaware the military allowed its members to wear those, but nobody Crowley came in contact with in Nazi Germany noticed, even though he wore them at night and on cloudy days.  Maybe it was easier to make their minds slide off the ridiculous in this era of national brainwashing.

He caught Crowley’s eye, indicated the tavern just down the street with a slight head gesture and mouthed a time later in the evening.  Crowley gave him a barely perceptible nod in return.  Then both went about their business until the appointed time, where each learned their purpose for being there.  That’s also when the plan came together.  Soon, both the angel and the demon arranged things so that they were in the perfect situation to do exactly what needed to be done in this dire circumstances – save as many lives as they could.

Now, well into their scheme in a different part of the country, Crowley was slowly falling apart. Aziraphale did his best to hold his friend together, but it got harder and harder with each passing day.

Crowley’s original mission was to send reports of the atrocities committed by the Nazis back to his supervisors in Hell.  It was still horrifying, but it was easier on his conscious when he was just on the outside observing the carnage from a distant vantage point.  But that wasn’t enough.  He wasn’t getting the information Hell needed to send its heavy hitters in to really do some damage.  One day upon returning Downstairs to file his reports, he was presented with a uniform, a fairly high rank, and a nice German name and pedigree to go with it all.  So much for staying on the fringe.  A horrified Crowley now found himself in the thick of it. 

“I can’t do this anymore.  I swear Down There is trying to break me.”  he slurred to Aziraphale as he refilled his glass with the rich brown brandy.  “I’ve said for a while now that it takes a human to do something really nasty to another human.  We would have never thought up what they’re doing to other people in a thousand years.”

If Aziraphale could see his eyes, he knew there would be a haunted look in them.  But Crowley never took off his sunglasses in his presence these days, despite the fact that not only had the two known each other for thousands of years, but for the first few sunglass-less millennia or so, Aziraphale made plenty of eye contact with those golden pupils and their slitted irises.

What was he so afraid of Aziraphale seeing?

“But they are also so full of grace,” Aziraphale replied.

“Yeah, well I’m not seeing much of that.”  Crowley said sourly before letting his head rest on the table.  His glass clinked against the bottle of brandy that never seemed to empty.  Last night it had been schnapps. That bottle sat over by the sink having also taken much longer to empty than should have been possible. 

He’d been drunk now for three days straight, having taken some leave.  A mere wave of his hand made this possible.  It’s not like he could make the excuse he had to look in on his elderly parents over on the border or that his wife was due to give birth any time now.  With a bit of difficulty, he lifted his head and reached in his jacket pocket, pulling out a sheet of paper that he slid across the table in Aziraphale’s direction.  The two columns of writing scrawled on it ran the length of the paper.

“Here.  The latest group they’re planning on taking to the concentration camps.  It’s more than you can save, angel.  If you know other people who can hide Jews, you need to be contacting them.  They’ll be rounded up on Tuesday.  I circled the families with children if . . .” he swallowed hard, “. . . if you can’t get everyone out.”

The thought of leaving anyone to the Nazi’s mercies didn’t sit well with the demon.  His idea of soul-tarnishing fun was more along the lines of screwing with the radio towers so people couldn’t listen to their favorite radio shows, not packing them into camps to face the worst kinds of mistreatment while they were worked to death.

Crowley was being oh-so-subversive in his assistance of Aziraphale.  In fact, he was doing it right under Hell’s nose and partially with their blessing.

“Heaven’s getting themselves quite the share of souls with all the deaths at the concentration camps,” he had told Dagon while meeting with him in his office.   “Honestly it worries me.  They’re being killed off at a high rate before we even have a chance to corrupt them.  You’ve seen it.  Our quotas aren’t what they used to be.”

Dagon gave him a thoughtful look as he tapped his fingers on his desk.  “What do you propose?”

“That we save them,” said Crowley and before Dagon could do more than open his mouth to protest he pushed on.  “Think about it. We can’t get to them once they’ve gotten their wings and harps, but if we keep a few alive, there’s a chance we can tarnish their souls enough to claim them for ourselves.  Thousands are being executed each day.  That’s a lot of souls for Up There.  We’re not seeing more than a trickle.  This won’t even the odds, but it’ll give us a fighting chance to up our quotas.”

After a bit of thought, Dagon had laughed in wicked delight at Crowley’s insidiously ingenious idea, clapped him on the back for being so devious and sent him back to Germany to save the lives of Nazi Germany’s undesirables so their souls could be tarnished in the future.   

Crowley thought he deserved a commendation for pulling one over on a Prince of Hell.  Although, these days Dagon was calling himself Vice-President of the Files and CEO of the Seventh Circle.  Downstairs had really gotten into that bureaucracy thing that was becoming chic among Earth’s governments and businesses.  Crowley was glad that humanity’s progress kept marching forward since less superstition in the world meant buckets fewer discorporations for him.  It was bloody difficult these days to get a new body with all the forms you had to fill out.  One missed blank and they sent you to the back of the line.

He visited Aziraphale as soon as it was possible to do so without arousing suspicion and their mission began.  Crowley provided lists of people in danger to Aziraphale.  Aziraphale collected them and hid them in the large back room of his little shop until they could be moved out of the country.  They hadn’t lost anyone yet.  Being an angel and demon had its advantages.  The judicious use of glamours kept the refugees safe.  But somehow it didn’t seem enough; they couldn’t save everyone.

Crowley had given up sleeping because the nightmares had become too intense.  Aziraphale wasn’t one to sleep, but his nights were still filled with haunting images of the war and whispered stories of Nazi atrocities spread by the neighbors.  He did what he could to keep the thoughts at bay, but it never seemed enough.  War was as close to Hell as the angel ever got.  Crowley, unfortunately, had to keep returning there once in a while.  He never came back in a good mood. 

The angel tried to encourage him to help out with the actual evacuation of the refugees as much as possible.  With Crowley’s shape-shifting abilities, no one was the wiser that a Nazi officer was actively working against the regime.  It always seemed to chase the nightmares off for a few days when he saw those who were saved passed off to their contacts at the border.  But it never lasted and Crowley had taken to drinking himself into a stupor whenever he wasn’t on duty.  Usually this happened in Aziraphale’s kitchen, which he didn’t mind.  He could keep an eye on Crowley that way.  A bar fight with real Nazis would certainly blow Crowley’s cover wide open.  Hell wouldn’t be too pleased if he got himself executed and given how stingy some in the Department of Earthly Corporations were, it might be a few decades before he saw his friend again.

Aziraphale rose to collect the new list, giving the drunken Crowley a grateful smile.  As much as he tried, he still couldn’t completely trust the demon.  Oh, Crowley’d keep up his end of the bargain, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t telling the truth to Dagon.  That he was just interested in saving lives so he could pick at their souls later on.  But it was a risk worth taking if they could save a few from the horrors of the concentration camp.  He had a twinge of guilt thinking that, knowing that Crowley had never been one with a strong constitution for pure evil.  His constant nightmares were proof of that. 

“Thank you, my dear boy,” he said solemnly as he pocketed the list.  “I do appreciate your help.”

Crowley looked up at him miserably and just nodded.  But in that moment Aziraphale felt the caress of the Grace.  He never understood it even after all this time, but he had come to expect it.  Crowley was somehow part of the ineffable Plan, but why involve a demon was beyond him.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, angel,” Crowley whispered.  “The things I’ve seen.  I’ve had to go on tours of some of the camps.  I don’t think I’ll ever forget.  It’s worse than the Spanish Inquisition.”

“I think I’ll see what’s on,” said Aziraphale, snapping on the radio sitting on the kitchen counter.  “Maybe there’s some good news.”

Before he had much of a chance to hear the latest propaganda, which required clever listening to so one could separate the wheat from the chaff, there was a knock at the door.  Crowley about jumped out of his skin his nerves were so shot.  Aziraphale sent a soothing wave of mental healing his way before going to answer it.

Crowley watched through his drunken haze as a man handed a letter over to Aziraphale who thanked him for it before shutting the door.  He turned around, opening it as he returned to the kitchen.  It appeared to be written on parchment.  Heaven never did get the hang of changing technology any better than Hell did.

“New mission?”

“No.  Good news.  The Allies are marching towards Berlin.  Oh, Crowley, this is all going to be over soon.” he handed the note over so Crowley could read it for himself.  Aziraphale swore the demon sobered up a bit upon skimming it. He didn’t look quite so dejected anymore.  The angel was really quite worried the dear boy was just going to curl up and discorporate on the spot if things started to get any worse.

He finished scanning that prat Gabriel’s handsome scrawl then fixed his gaze upon his left arm with its offensive symbolism wrapped right there around it.  He spent this wretched war wearing a snappy uniform all decorated out with symbols, some stolen from other cultures, which would forever be associated with heinous acts.  It made him feel sicker than the brandy did.  He pointed his finger at the offending red armband and it began to burn brightly.  It didn’t matter he didn’t bother to remove it first.  It wasn’t like his limb itself was in danger of catching fire.  He’d lived in hotter places.

Various pieces of military trappings fell from the jacket, hitting the table with a metallic clang where they smoked and melted into puddles of nothingness.  Aziraphale knew Crowley would now quietly disappear from the military, his name erased from the Nazi rolls.  Hell wouldn’t expect its operative to stick around now that surrender looked inevitable.  With any luck, Aziraphale could convince Crowley to come back to London with him where they both could recover before Downstairs decided to use him again for another mission he was bound to loathe.

Aziraphale stood there pensively watching the armband burn without scorching Crowley’s sleeve and wondering why he still could not bring himself to completely trust him.  Crowley appeared to completely trust him.  With a sigh, the angel sat down at the table next to his friend and patted his hand in sympathy.  The puzzling divinity he’d grown used to popped up once again like it did occasionally in situations where Crowley wasn’t acting like a complete bastard.

“I know this had been hard, but we got through it.  Wars, thankfully, don’t last forever.”

“No,” said Crowley in a hollow tone, “but they do last long enough.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out more Crowley-centric than I wanted, so sorry about that. I really wanted to show Aziraphale taking care of him and learning that he can be trusted, but it didn't seem to come out like that the way I wanted. Blah. I might have to take this chapter and just make a whole story out of it from Aziraphale's point of view.
> 
> I finally did write a longer story that is a lot more Aziraphale-centered. You can find here: [Subterfuge ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21447484/chapters/51108832#workskin)


	5. London and South Downs, After the Failed Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, what do we do now? Well, buy a cottage in the South Downs, of course!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking the Apocalypse forward to present time, like in the miniseries. We'll just say it happened in 2018 or so instead of 1990.

“The bookshop’s gone, you know,” said Crowley as they drove back to London from Lower Tadfield.  “I watched it burn.”

Aziraphale hadn’t objected to him taking the Jeep as they needed some way to get back, but he did protest when Crowley left Shadwell and Madam Tracy to putter their own way home on her scooter.  His protestations didn’t last long as this gave them time to talk alone.  The scooter would make for a long trip, but they’d be perfectly safe as Aziraphale had taken the time to fix all its little mechanical issues.  It actually might be a good way for those two to spend some time together, he reasoned as the countryside sped by faster than it really should have.  Maybe something would come of it.

“I know.  I watched it start as I was being discorporated,” he replied with a sigh.  “All my books . . . your Bentley.  The world was saved but we both lost something important.”

They drove on in awkward silence until Crowley said, “I’d offer you space for a while, but I have a feeling we’re both going to be watched.  We’ll get you a nice hotel room and meet at St. James tomorrow if the coast is clear.”

“I have a feeling we’re safe for a while but you’re right.  We can’t be too careful until we can really assess the situation.”

The rest of the trip consisted of forced, mundane chit chat as both the demon and the angel did their best to avoid talking about what just happened back at the airbase.  Eventually, to everyone’s relief, they drove back into London proper, looking very welcoming in all its sparkling lights and activity.  Aziraphale was safely dropped off at a posh hotel, reservation waiting for him.  Being supernatural did have its perks.

The stolen Jeep, now sporting a black paint job thanks to Crowley’s thoughts, was parked in front of the flat in a place reserved for a car that had been the apple of Crowley’s eye for the better part of sixty years.  He felt the pang of loss as he walked away from it towards the building that housed a flat he wasn’t keen on returning to yet.  It was just earlier today that he had escaped from the prison it had become as he waited to hear from Aziraphale, Down Below literally hot on his heels.  The pause button might have been pushed thanks to the failed attempt at Armageddon, but Crowley knew the possibility remained that he was far from being out of the woods yet.

That’s the thing about the sadists Downstairs.  They got greater satisfaction out of not telling you you’d struggle to keep from bursting into fits of frustration trying to do their bidding than letting you know exactly how things were going to be.  You weren’t assigned a pitchfork and given lost souls to torture.  You were the object to be tortured if you didn’t toe the line.

 Crowley climbed the stairs to his office to check on the mess that used to be Ligur.  The bucket and carpet were still wet, but he could safely vanish the stain from a distance.  The rest would have to wait until everything was thoroughly dry.  Having taken care of what he could, he collapsed on the white leather couch in the lounge trying not to think about the uneasy fact that there was holy water evaporating from a small, soaked spot on the carpet a couple of rooms away.

Now what? 

 _Maybe sleep.  Maybe things will more much more sense the morning._   With that thought he took himself to bed, sure that Beelzebub wouldn’t be sending any more of his minions after him tonight.  He’d be up to his ears in chaos after today’s complete failure to start a celestial war.  Tomorrow might be different.

In his hotel room, Aziraphale emptied the minibar as he tried to come to terms with the loss of every single book he had collected since he had a place to store them.  He mourned the loss of every rare volume as he remembered where and when he acquired each in turn.  He drank a toast to each leather binding, each yellowed page he lovingly read before finding an appropriate place to store the books on his bookshelves.   He remembered caressing their spines as he dusted them or took them off the shelf for a reread. 

He could afford to get roaring drunk.  Heaven wasn’t going to contact him, nor did he make any attempt to get in touch with them, either.  The Metatron was probably up to his eyeballs in unanswered questions as the Heavenly Host tried to make sense of Adam’s actions, not that Aziraphale had any sympathy for him.  The Metatron no longer had his finger on the pulse of current events nor any direction from Him.  He had left several millennia ago and hadn’t so much as contacted any of His creations in Heaven in all that time. 

At a loss about what to do, Aziraphale turned on the television and watched a couple of films.  It felt strange not having a book in front of him as he lay under the covers propped by every plush pillow the bed had to offer.  The films didn’t hold his attention, even while drunk.  He miracled up a third refill of the minibar’s contents anyway.  Maybe he just wasn’t drunk enough.  Unfortunately, the long night passed without him getting remotely close to drunk enough no matter how hard he tried. 

Morning came, but breakfast didn’t hold the appeal it usually did.  Aziraphale didn’t even feel like heading out to find a place where he could get a decent cup of cocoa, opting instead to hold on to the drunkenness as long as possible.  After a while, he miracled some cocoa anyway and filled it with Irish cream.  The best of both worlds.

He rang Crowley around eleven o’clock after taking a moment to painfully sober up.  Moping was all well and good, but it was time to start picking up the pieces now.

“Uhhh?” mumbled the demon as he picked up the phone.

“Hello, my dear,” said Aziraphale.  “Anything come of last night?”

“Ngh.  Think it’s safe for right now . . . Was sleeping, yanno.” came the bleary reply.

“You don’t even require sleep.  How about meeting at St. James in half an hour?”

“I _like_ sleep.”  Crowley let out an exasperated sigh.  “Fine.  See you then, angel.”  With that he hung up and pulled the pillow over his head until the very last minute.  Only then did he get up for his meeting with Aziraphale, wishing some clean clothes on himself as he walked out of the bedroom. 

Still groggy, he headed down to the street stopping short when he came to the place where he parked the Jeep last night.  _No.  That’s not possible._

Sprinting over, he snaked his hands along hood of the Bentley, delighted to see his baby again.  Waving the door open, he sat in the driver’s seat and set his hands upon the wheel.  Nothing felt different.  It was like sliding into a full body glove, as always.  He laid his forehead against the butter soft leather wrapping that steering wheel he was clutching, eyes closed behind his sunglasses.

 _I don’t normally say things like this, but thank you._  That kid wasn’t so bad after all. 

Aziraphale positively beamed at him when he strolled up to the bench the angel was sitting on.  Crowley took a seat next to him, one eyebrow raised above his sunglasses.  He wished up a baguette to feed to the ducks and began tearing it apart as the flock waddled towards him, intention in every single beady black eye. 

“Bookshop back?”

“Yes.  How did you know?”  Aziraphale reached for some bread. 

“The Bentley’s back, too.  Good as new.  He reset everything.”

They fell quickly into conversation about yesterday and all that entailed.  Neither side had contacted their agents on Earth, but neither Crowley nor Aziraphale were upset about this as both felt extremely used by their superiors at this point; tired of being pawns in some bigger game where there would be no real winners in the end.  Crowley more than Aziraphale hoped this trend continued indefinitely.  He really didn’t relish his name being relisted in Hell’s bad books.  There was only so much holy water in the world and he really didn’t want any of it in his flat anymore, even locked securely in the heavy duty nuclear-facility-approved safe behind the _Mona Lisa_ sketch.

“We can discuss this _ad nauseum_ but we’re never truly going to get answers,” Crowley finally said.  “So, live and let live, I guess.  It’s better than the alternative, if we could experience the alternative anyway.  Can I tempt you to lunch at the Ritz?”

Aziraphale could never turn down lunch at the Ritz.

It was during dessert that he dropped surprising news on Crowley.  “I’ve spent hundreds of years now in London and was thinking that maybe it was time to move on to a new location.  Maybe some place along the southern coast for a change.  I really haven’t spent much time there.”

“Oh?” Crowley tried to remain nonchalant, but his attempt to take a sip of champagne in a casual manner failed when he swallowed it quite noisily.  Aziraphale loved London.  What would suddenly cause an interest in moving away to the seaside?

“Maybe find a quaint little town that’s in need of a bookshop.”

Crowley snorted.  “Angel, no quaint little town is in need of a bookshop which works out quite nicely for you since your prized collection is never going to fit anywhere but in a shop itself.”

Aziraphale had the decency to blush just a bit at that statement.  “Anyway,” he continued.   “You could come along.  For the sake of the Arrangement, of course.  It’ll help clear our names with our prospective employers if it appears we’re still working hard to tempt and thwart.”

“Why would I ever want to leave the excitement of London, not to mention a prime flat in Mayfair, for life in some little boring town in the middle of nowhere?”

Aziraphale chuckled.  “Because, you old serpent, I do know you’ve always loved living by the ocean and you do enjoy a change of pace every few hundred years or so.”

“I’ll think about it.  Maybe.”

Aziraphale knew he had already made up his mind.  “Please do.  I’ll be heading down there next weekend by train to look at some properties.”

“Train?  Public transportation?”  Crowley asked with palatable disgust.  “Perish the thought.  We’ll take the Bentley.”

His lunch partner hid his knowing smile behind his champagne glass.

Crowley showed up in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop at precisely eight o’clock Saturday morning, complaining in his own head about the ungodly hour.  The yellow no parking lines in front of the bookshop obligingly rolled up for a half a block in either direction as they always did whenever Crowley decided to park somewhere.  Parking tickets happened to other people.  Opening the locked shop door with a thought, Crowley strode right in.  Aziraphale was fussing with some paperwork at the counter; he didn’t even bother to look up from reading when the bell rang.

“You could knock, my dear,” he murmured, scribbling a note on an invoice.

In all honestly, it wasn’t the rudest entrance Crowley had ever made, but Aziraphale had had six thousand years to get used to Crowley’s entrances.  Crowley grinned in return and patiently waited, leaning up against a bookshelf while Aziraphale finished things up.

“You said be here at eight sharp, angel, and you’re not even ready.  Why do I bother?”

“I found a place I’d like to look at.  It’s a cottage, but big enough for both of us if you choose to join me.”  said Aziraphale as they headed out the door and got into the Bentley.  “Two bedrooms and a study.  You could have one bedroom and the other two rooms I could keep some of my books in.”

Crowley started the car with a thought.  “It might be tempting as long as I have room for my houseplants and you don’t spend all night making enough racket to wake the dead.  I do enjoy my sleep.” 

The no parking zone returned to its rightful place as soon as he pulled out into traffic.  Aziraphale smiled at him as he leafed through paperwork on the prospective cottage.

“Oh, I’ll do you one better, my dear.  It has a greenhouse and sits on several acres by the sea.  You could take up gardening again to your heart’s content.”

Crowley’s heart, which he wasn’t sure he had until this moment, very nearly skipped a beat.  He’d had gardens over the years, but usually smaller ones and nothing like his creations in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.  He’d never be able to do those again, but he could work miracles on a couple of acres of seaside land.

“It might be worth the petrol it takes to drive down there and back,” he said, not wanting to let on that the thought of living by the seaside with a chance to really garden again did greatly appeal to him.

“Dear boy, I have it on pretty good authority you’ve never bought any,” replied Aziraphale as the Bentley sped down the highway towards their future.

Several hours later their offer was accepted by the older woman selling the place, who was impressed by Crowley’s expert knowledge on gardening and charmed by Aziraphale’s gentle, polite manner.  Crowley walked the property with Aziraphale after money and keys to one fully furnished cottage changed hands, all which should have taken considerably longer than it did, but doing business with an angel and a demon did have some up sides.  She left after handing over a deed in their names, blissfully unaware Crowley modified her memory a bit so that the sale fit within the usual timeframe for such things.

“We could have gone the usual route, you know, instead of enchanting the whole process,” said Aziraphale, although his chiding was not too reproachful.  He could see the advantages to getting things done with as soon as possible.

“The gardens are a sight for sore eyes.  The sooner I can threaten them into shape, the better for everyone,” Crowley said, fingering a runaway flowering vine on a trellis propped up by the back door.

They strolled in the back door, through the tiny mudroom and into the kitchen, where an old oak kitchen table sat surrounded by matching chairs.  Crowley had a seat just to test things out.  He would be damned if he was going to have breakfast at an uncomfortable table and chairs.  Not bad for an old antique, he decided.  It might get to stay.  But he was determined the living room would be more modern.  Aziraphale could deck out his library like it was 1950 for all he cared.

“It’ll do,” he declared.  “But I’m keeping my London flat.  I absolutely refuse to spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week with you.  I’ll require breaks.”

Aziraphale was rummaging through the cupboards for a couple of mugs.  Finding some, he miracled up some piping hot tea for both of them.  “If that’s what you need.” 

He refused to let Crowley offend him, especially since Crowley was just trying to deflect his excitement over the cottage and its gardens.  He handed one mug to Crowley, who with a thought added the correct amount of milk and sugar, then sat down across the table. 

“Time to start looking for a suitable store front.”

“You mean climate-controlled storage facility masquerading as a bookshop,” corrected Crowley as he took a sip of the tea.

“Really, my dear, that wasn’t necessary.”

“Oh, you’d better get used unnecessary comments, angel.  You just bought a cottage and asked me to be your roommate.”

Aziraphale just smiled in return.  The plant-loving demon sharing space with the bookworm of an angel; this was going to be an interesting adventure. 


	6. Heaven, Present Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Aziraphale and Crowley get some answers.

White.  That’s all that was here – white.  White walls, white floor, white furniture, cold white light.  The only spot of colour was Crowley and even he with his slim, black suit and crisp, white shirt didn’t provide much of that.  If his temper could physically manifest itself, the room would have been full of shades of red, from the deepest merlot to the brightest crimson.  It would have been an improvement, he thought. 

Crowley wished Aziraphale was here, even if it meant staring at those rumpled beige pants and that argyle jumper he was favoring lately, but when the angel tried to enter the waiting area with Crowley, he was told he was needed elsewhere and ushered away with a puzzled look on his face.  Company would have been nice.  Anything would be better than a bland room with only a hard, stiff chair in it.  They sure weren’t into creature comforts here.

Finally the door opposite him opened and he was directed into an office space with much more colour than the waiting area.  No chairs were present here, but he didn’t have to stand around for long before the secretary opened the door behind the desk into a private office and waved him in.  He strolled more nonchalantly than he was feeling into a space filled mostly with warm greys and lighter shades of purple. 

Hands shoved into the pockets of his slim pants, he appraised the décor and the prat sitting behind the desk.  “Nice place you have here.  So much better than that bland waiting area you made me cool my heels in for an eternity.  Now let’s get to the point.  Why am I here?”

“I see you’ve decided to dispense with the niceties.  Hello to you, too, Crowley.  It’s been a few ages since you were angel, but I do remember you then,” Gabriel wryly looked up from the pristine white folder he was perusing.  “Quiet type.  Liked creating new plant life.  A bit of a rule-bender and asked entirely too many questions for comfort, but not the type I took for Falling.  And now I know why you did.”

He gestured for Crowley to take a seat.  Crowley remained standing, hands still stuffed in his pockets. 

“Do tell,” the demon hissed.  “I was never sure myself why I suddenly woke up on a piece of burning hot granite nor was I sure why I never suffered like the other bastards did from the loss of the Grace.  You have an answer for that, too?”

“Sit.  Please.  We have a lot to discuss and it’ll be easier if you just relax a bit and work with me.”

“I’m a demon currently standing in an Archangel’s office in Heaven.  Relaxing is the furthest thing from my mind,” Crowley bit out, but he did finally remove his hands from his pockets and sit himself on the edge of the chair, long fingers clenching the arms of it so tightly Gabriel could clearly see that Crowley really was serious about his level of enthusiasm about being here.

Part of it probably was the way the invitation was sent.  Crowley was preparing the flowerbeds beside the walkway up to the South Downs cottage’s front door one minute, the next he found himself having to wish himself into cleaner clothes because he was standing in Heaven’s entryway in front of some low-level angelic bureaucrat, a confused Aziraphale beside him holding a book in a manner that suggested he was just about to put it on a shelf.

“Upon instructions from the Metatron, Heaven sent an emissary to Hell to discuss your release.”

“Excuse me?”

“Can you just hear me out, please?  We negotiated with Hell a deal where you would be released from your duties as a demon.  Apparently after what happened that August, they’re not sure what to do with you.  Eternal torture did come to mind, but then they considered that they really had only a fifty percent chance of winning and you messing everything up basically resulted in a hundred percent chance of their continued existence,”  Gabriel explained while idly flipping through the papers in the folder in front of him.  “You’ll be released back to us.”

Crowley was like a statue.  If his facial expression changed minutely, it was hard to tell thanks to the ever-present armor of his fashionable sunglasses.  He sat there silently for long enough Gabriel wished he’d just react.  Finally Crowley spoke.

“This sounds like some kind of prisoner exchange.  Do I have a say in this?  What do I get out of this deal besides a reprieve from punishment?  Why would Heaven want me back?”

“Heaven never abandoned you, Crowley.”

The demon’s knuckles turned white, his grip threatening to tear the lavender fabric from the chair’s arms.  “It sure didn’t feel that way to me.”  He stood up abruptly slamming his hands down on Gabriel’s marble-topped desk, making the startled angel blink in surprise.  “For the love of all that’s holy, you lot owe me an explanation.”

“The Grace never left you, Crowley.  You had to Fall because you were the one to get the ball rolling, so to speak.  The apple . . . the stationing on Earth . . . the  misplacement of the Antichrist . . . it was all part of the ineffable Plan.”  Gabriel gestured vaguely.  “You never really fit into either Heaven or Hell.  You were created as Heaven’s agent in Hell, so to speak.  A demon with abilities different from other demons.  You’re fond of humans and never really did anything to truly harm them.  You were willing to work with an angel.  You developed enough free will to work against your own people.”

Crowley ran a hand through his stylishly tousled auburn hair – a colour he was favoring lately – and laughed a laugh devoid of any humor.  “I was an unwitting cosmic chess piece in other words.”

“We all were,” said Gabriel, who quickly added, “But you got the shortest end of the stick,” when Crowley rounded on him with teeth bared.  “But you can come back now.  The Grace never left you, which is why you never suffered like the rest did.  It moved you and convinced Aziraphale to trust you along the way . . . .  You’ll be welcomed back into your Choir.”

The response from the demon was quiet but carried a lot of power.  “I was unfairly cast out of Heaven so I could unknowingly be their double agent.  I ended up cursed with these,” he whipped off his sunglasses, revealing furious, golden snake eyes, “for apparently doing exactly what _She_ wanted me to do.  I endured more suffering than any immortal being should be forced to endure, from some of the unpleasantly horrific missions I was forced to perform to almost getting myself killed trying to stop my boss from coming up here.  All so _She_ could put humankind where _She_ wanted them and sneakily avert the Apocalypse.  I deserve more than admission back into Heaven.  I deserve a deal on my own terms.”

Gabriel stared him directly in those curious eyes, Crowley’s face mere inches from his as the demon leaned threateningly over the desk.  “Name them and I’ll make sure they’re honored, although I doubt I can do a blessed thing about your eyes.  The only communication we’ve had from Her in a few thousand years is when the file telling everything about you showed up on the Metatron’s desk two days ago.  I have no way to ask Him to undo the curse.”

“Try praying.  Maybe She’ll actually answer,” murmured Crowley angrily, pushing himself off of the desk.  “The eyes were the cruelest touch.  Slitted like a snake’s but the coloured like the roses I created right before I Fell.”

He broke eye contact with Gabriel to begin pacing in front of the desk, both hands raking through his now unruly hair.

“A reminder of the Grace,” replied Gabriel.  “Those roses still climb the Gates of Heaven, you know.  I always wondered why She insisted they be left alone before She disappeared.”

“In the early years, those damned eyes got me discorporated by superstitious humans more times that I can count anymore.  Anyway . . . Let’s get on with this.  I’m tired of dwelling in the past.”  Crowley stopped the furious pacing he was doing and he started to make his demands.  “I will not serve Heaven any more than I will serve Hell.  I am now officially retired.  No playing silly buggers and stripping me of my powers.  I’ve literally been through six thousand years of Hell for that fucking ineffable Plan so nobody better get the idea to turn the ex-demon human just for, you know, safety’s sake.  You lot will keep the denizens of Hell off my back.  If some angry Duke decides to come after me, I’d better get some Archangels down there as bodyguards.  If I end up discorporated, I expect I will be receiving a new body from your Department of Requisitions.  I don’t think it’s too much to ask that Heaven watch my back and my spirit never get stuck in limbo after what I’ve been through.  You.  Owe.  Me.”

The Archangel was writing out all Crowley dictated.  “Anything else?”

“Aziraphale will always be stationed on Earth.  He loves it there and really he wouldn’t do well in Heaven anymore.  Give him his happiness.  It’s the least you can do,” said Crowley.  “I . . . never mind . . .”  He wouldn’t admit even to himself that he had grown fond of that fussy angel through the millennia or that he was the one friend he actually had in this world.  He never got close to humans anymore.  Their lights burned brightly, but were snuffed out too quickly.  In some ways immortality was a curse.  At least they could share it with each other this way.

The notes in Gabriel’s hand suddenly disappeared.  Crowley figured he was sending the details on to his superiors.  Now they waited uncomfortably for the moment of truth, which took several minutes.  A long, agonizing several minutes for Crowley, who had little to say to Gabriel even when he was an angel.  It was like being stuck in a room with that one relative nobody likes or really wants to talk to.  He settled for ignoring him while sitting slouched angrily in the chair, his back against one arm with his long legs slung over the other while he fiddled on his mobile.  It was surprisingly easy to hack into Heaven’s Wi-Fi even though it was rude to dig the heels of his snakeskin-patterned shoes into the fabric on the side of said chair, but it wasn’t like he was feeling particularly charitable towards Gabriel or any other member of Heaven’s bureaucracy.

“It’s a deal,” Gabriel materialized a piece of parchment in his hands spelling out Crowley’s demands that was signed by the Metatron.  “Sign here and it’s a binding contract.” 

A quick glance told Crowley he gotten everything he asked for – part of Heaven yet not officially on duty, released from Hell, no revoking his powers, bodies if he ended up discorporated, protection if needed and Aziraphale stationed on Earth.  Crowley gladly signed “Anthony J. Crowley” in his neat, slanted script.  He’d be damned again if he’d use either his original angelic name or the one they saddled him with Down Below.  “Where’s Aziraphale?  The sooner we get out of here, the happier I’ll be.”

Gabriel produced a copy for Crowley and handed it to him.  “He’s having a meeting in the Department of Devine Grace.  Crowley, for what it’s worth, I apologize for everything that’s happened . . .” he broke off awkwardly, not sure what else he could say to the ex-demon.

Crowley’s angry features softened somewhat as he replied before walking out the door.  “Well . . . thanks, for what it’s worth.  I know we’re all just cosmic pawns here.  Not your fault.” 

Maybe Gabriel wasn’t such a prat after all.  Still a prat, but a lower grade one than Crowley first thought. 

Aziraphale sat in his chair his elegant hands folded helplessly in his lap, his face registering disbelief.  “Zaphriet, you can’t be serious.”

The angel in his crisp, beige suit sat at his desk and nodded slowly.  “I’m very serious.  And Aziraphale?  This isn’t common knowledge, so please do not discuss it with anyone else.  Gabriel, the Metatron, me, you and Anthos are the only ones who know.  There are a lot in the Host who would not understand.”

“Anthos?  I don’t recognize that name.”

“Oh.”  Zaphriet blushed.  “Crawly.  Crowley.  Whatever our former demon calls himself these days.  I do apologize.  I know you’re on good terms with him -- unusual as that is for an angel -- but this isn’t a situation that’s ever come up before.  I’m still trying to keep an open mind here, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Aziraphale blinked in wonder as he thumbed through the catholic knowledge in his head.  _The given name Antony, from the Roman gens Antonii, developed an “h” somewhere along the way because some human claimed it was derived from anthos, the Greek word for plant, which apparently originally came from one of Heaven’s gardeners.  Oh, you clever, old serpent.  Your original name hidden all this time in your chosen human one._

“Yes, we’re friends,” he said out loud, savoring that word for a moment and forgetting the momentary irritation that flared up at Zaphriet’s flippant remark about what Crowley called himself nowadays.  “It’s funny how you come to think of people.  We started out at each other’s throats and ended up almost facing the forces of Hell together.  So, what’s the rest of Heaven being told about this situation?”

“That Anthony Crowley is strictly off limits in recognition of his willingness to face off against the Adversary and nothing more.”

Aziraphale nodded, relieved.  “That’s good.”  He worried about Crowley eventually having half of Hell on his heels again for his involvement in misplacing the Antichrist.  He didn’t need half of Heaven after him for averting the Apocalypse as well.

“This is kind of exciting,” the other angel gushed.  “We’ve never welcomed one back into the Host before.  To think, he Fell and retained his Grace.  All part of the Plan, eh?”

 Aziraphale tried to keep up the cheery smile he had plastered to his face for the sake of not hurting the other angel’s feelings, but his entire soul was filled with turmoil.  He was just sat down in Zaphriet’s office in the Department of Devine Grace and told his Enemy-turned-friend was never truly his Enemy in the first place.  He was finding this whole situation nauseating.  Poor Crowley had spent the better part of his lifetime being messed around by Her, the One who was supposed to protect Her creations, not damn them to Hell because She needed a conveniently placed agent.  An agent who didn’t even know he was an agent in the first place.  This was just too much for Aziraphale to take in.  How was he going to handle it when he had a chance to process it?  He had no room for doubt.  It wasn’t an angel’s place to doubt the ineffable, unless the time had come for that to change.  Things felt different now.  He couldn’t put his finger on why.  Maybe one just doesn’t spend millennia on Earth and not pick up some traits from the humans.  They doubt all the time but still manage to keep the faith.

Plus, how was Crowley going to handle it? 

Apparently not well.  The office door slammed open and Crowley stormed in his face darker than the sky on the day the rebellious angels Fell.  Zaphriet stood up to object to the rude intrusion, then sank back down just as quickly, thinking better of it.  Aziraphale just sat there shocked, mouth agape, until Crowley grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet.

“We’re going,” the former demon snapped.  “Keep your mouth shut, Zaphriet.  I never liked you when I was part of the Host.  I doubt that’s changed.”

Then he was out the door, Aziraphale in tow, trying his best to keep up with the rapid pace set by his taller companion.

“It was lovely talking to you again,” Aziraphale called back over his shoulder as Crowley dragged him from the room.

Crowley stopped his angry charge down the hallway once they were out of the Department of Divine Grace.  “Just a moment . . . I need to do something.”

He let go of Aziraphale’s wrist and walked a bit further down the hall.  With a _pop_ he manifested his wings from the ethereal plane, carefully bending them around the best he could to examine the feathers.  They were no longer the deep, iridescent midnight-during-a-new-moon black he had become accustomed to and taken pride in.  They were as celestial white as Aziraphale’s.  Pure.  Blinding as sunlight on newly fallen snow.  Crowley’s temper rose a degree more as he plucked out one, long, stiff primary that immediately started to grow slowly back as soon as the former feather was removed.

“I liked them black!” he shouted to nobody in particular. 

The Grace in him responded with a sort of sad apology, the first he had heard from it in quite some time.  What it thought that was going accomplish, Crowley had no idea.  He snorted, still feeling very much used and not remotely like playing Heaven’s ineffable game of silly buggers.

“That’s not helping,” he snapped, making Aziraphale wonder to whom he was speaking.  The angel paused a moment, not sure what to do.  When Crowley was in one of his moods, it was usually best to just stay out of the way as much as possible and this was definitely a mood.  Actually, it was more like A Mood, so deserving of the capital letters.  Yet, Mood-with-capital-M or not, they couldn’t stand here all day in a hallway of Heaven while Crowley blew a gasket over the colour of his wing feathers. 

Aziraphale sighed.  The angel approached him cautiously to gently remove the plucked feather from Crowley’s furious grasp.  “My dear boy, I think it’s best if we just leave and maybe back on Earth we can concentrate on how to return them to their correct colour.”  

With that, it was now Aziraphale who took Crowley’s wrist and led him out the employee entrance that led to Earth’s particular plane.  Patting Crowley’s hand as they glided – on offensively coloured wings in Crowley’s case – down to Earth, he tried his best to soothe the ex-demon’s temper with little success.  Crowley was very wound up and very much wanted to stay that way.

“You never liked Hell,” Aziraphale said as he sat across the table in the back of the bookshop with Crowley, who slouched there with crossed arms and a deep scowl. 

He had taken Crowley back to London in hopes of occupying his mind with a trip to their old haunts.  Instead, they ended up back at the bookshop where half Aziraphale’s collection was packed up ready to move and the other half still sat on the dusty shelves while Crowley had ranted uncontrollably for almost an hour before Aziraphale was able to soothe him enough to tamp his fiery temper down to smoldering coals.  He had poured them both some strong scotch they could discuss the day’s events over.

“I never liked Heaven, either.  I like it here.  Such a wonderful, stupid place this world is and I enjoy it very much.  I’d enjoy it more if neither side was meddling in my affairs.  I don’t need Hell demanding my obedience for yet another foul mission that’s going to leave me with a month’s worth of nightmares or the Grace yanking my chain whenever it feels it needs to lead me along some pre-determined destiny.”

“I think they’ll leave you alone now.  Down Below agreed to give you up and Up There’s basically accepted you’re not going to work for them, either.  You also got an iron-bound contract out of the Metatron.  Heaven’s not going to breech that.”

“I hope not.  Hell’s got all the best lawyers and none of them are going to represent me anymore.”  Crowley stared into his glass of scotch.  “What am I going to do now, angel?  I never really was a demon because I never truly lost my divinity.  Yet I’m not an angel, either.  I’m something . . . different.”

“Then you invent your own identity from now on, my dear.  You’ve proven beings like us can have free will.  It’s time you exercised it instead of convincing yourself you have to obey Hell or follow the lead of the Grace.”  Aziraphale reached his hand over and covered Crowley’s with it.  “You are your own being now and you have a completely fresh start with the move.  Let’s discover who Crowley is together, shall we?”

Crowley’s glower, which had been cemented on his face since leaving Heaven, seemed to come just a tiny bit unstuck.  He gazed down at Aziraphale’s plump hand covering his own and felt a rush of kinship coming from that small bit of contact.  It was the comforting touch of a friendship that spanned six thousand years.  Perpetual anger at either of the sides who used him as pawn was going to just drag him down and paralyze him, he realized.  A life lived with his best friend of the last six millennia . . . well, that was a different story and it sounded like a very happy, uplifting one at that.  Although it was a bit nauseating that he found that appealing.  Maybe it was better for a not-demon-yet-not-angel to forget about sides and forge his own way with one fussy bookworm of an angel making that journey beside him. 

He thought a moment longer, frowned a bit in concentration and pleasantly discovered that some things weren’t set in stone.  Just a bit of rearranging with his powers and things were just right.  Neither black nor white.

“Sure,” he replied, unfurling beautiful, shining, silver-feathered wings into Earth’s plane.  “It’s such a totally sappy, warm fuzzy kind of answer, but what the hell.  Let’s figure out exactly who I am.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of bookended Crowley's wish for freedom from the first chapter with him getting actual freedom here and it was utter coincidence at first until I noticed and developed it a little more.


End file.
